


If You Wait

by GloriaVictoria



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Living Together, M/M, Mako Mori Lives, Mutual Pining, Night Terrors, POV Newton Geiszler, Psychological Trauma, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 22:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16184234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaVictoria/pseuds/GloriaVictoria
Summary: In the midst of his recovery, Newt finds himself shacking up with Hermann Gottlieb -- a prospect that both excites and terrifies him. At first, he thinks he's just a burden, but soon he learns that both he and Hermann need each other desperately, if either of them are to heal. A fic exploring Newt's journey back from the Breach, not as the man he was before, but someone new. Rated M for language, heavy emotional content, and descriptions of violence.





	If You Wait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarah1281](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah1281/gifts).



> Title is from the London Grammar album, "If You Wait", which I listened to extensively while writing this fic.

When the Precursors release Newt, he knows something deep and intrinsic within him has changed. He knows this because he feels nothing as he looks around at Hermann's lab in Moyulan, filled with items he recognizes as his own -- his figurines on shelves, leather jacket hanging in his closet, untouched save for a repair on the sleeve. He knows because he sees the staff, some of them old friends from Hong Kong, ogling as he walks down the halls. Their smiles float upon their lips like ghosts haunting an old portrait, their disgust masked by concern and pity. He knows most of all because Hermann no longer looks at him like an equal or a friend; he looks at him like a child, like a beaten puppy or a broken doll needing repaired.

They hadn’t allowed him to stay in Moluyan -- naturally, they felt that his presence there could disturb their work. Instead, they’d shipped him off to Geneva, the PPDC headquarters, and there they’d given him a small room, modestly furnished, with a big window looking out at the Alps. They allowed him a few personal items, benign things like his posters and vintage CDs.  They gave him a small allowance, and a visiting hour each day, to which nobody came. Despite essentially living the life of a glorified prisoner, he’s comfortable, enjoys the peace and quiet that he hasn’t been afforded for nearly a decade. It’s more than he had expected. It’s more than he deserved.

Newt's life in Geneva revolves largely around flights of tests, questioning and sitting through meetings where a group of men and women in suits hash out what precisely to do with this man, both hero and criminal, too valuable to jail or institutionalize but too vulnerable -- and hated -- to let out on the street on his own recognizance. When he's not confined to a lab or conference room, he usually spends his time outdoors, in the green space outside the headquarters. He reads, or just watches the fountain babble and splash in its granite seat,  He misses laughing; he misses talking. His voice grows rusty with disuse.

Newt's uncle and father call him after a couple weeks of this, and when their faces appear on the screen of his borrowed tablet, he can tell they're concerned. Worse; they're _scared._ They put on a good show for a while, avoiding any discussion of What Happened in favor of small talk, meaningless shit that barely registers in Newt's mind. They tell him about the success his mother's performance academy, how they had started a new garden plot outside the house, how they'd found frogs in their pond. Did Newt remember looking for tadpoles in the summer? Did Newt recall that lovely young neighbor girl he used to play with? She just got remarried last month.

Eventually it comes back to the real shit, once they've run out of ways to cushion the blow. They don't even know what questions to ask, and Newt doesn't know what to tell them except, “I'm sorry, it's complicated.” He can't explain it to them in a way that sounds anything but incriminating, but he supposes it's all the same. He has nobody else to blame. They say their goodbyes, and his father tells him that he'll always love him, no matter what. Newt doesn't really buy it, but hey -- gotta give him credit for trying.

It doesn't take long for Newt to establish some semblance of routine. Mondays and Wednesdays are psych and emotional evaluations, Thursday is EEGs. These things tend to tire him out, between the tests themselves and resisting the urge to throttle the techs and doctors tut-tutting and shaking their heads. He would almost prefer to deal with their anger. On off days, he reads or listens to music, staring out his window or just up at the ceiling, counting the minuscule lines in the plaster. Occasionally he takes a walk, but many days he sleeps. He dreams of terrible things: eyes cold as the ocean staring into his soul, the gargle of rushing water, the scream of a beast of metal and flesh. He dreams of strangling the life out of the only man in this godforsaken world who could possibly understand him, a man he hasn't seen in nearly a month. Those dreams send him staggering to the shower, drenched in sweat, choking back sobs beneath a spray of cold water.

* * *

“You haven't really told me anything about them, Dr. Geiszler.”

“You haven't asked me anything I _can_ answer, Cerise.”

Newt has seen Dr. Cerise Godard since arriving in Geneva. The PPDC hired her to provide therapy services to him, but most of the time it just seemed like a subterfuge for gathering intel about the Precursors. He doesn't understand why they don't just ask; it's not like he's trying to protect them. He supposes this is more ethical than interrogation, if only just.

“By the way, call me Newt. Please. I'm not a doctor anymore.”

“Your _alma mater_ hasn't revoked your doctorates.” Cerise answers, as if it matters. “Besides, I respect your work and admire what you’ve done for the whole world.”

“Even though I tried to destroy it?” Cerise looks over her glasses as Newt rolls his eyes.

“Do _you_ think you deserve respect?” She counters, and Newt laughs coldly, fixing his gaze on the large bookshelf behind her chair. His eyes skim the titles, most of them dull psychological studies and therapy manuals. Looking at them is easier than looking at her.

“Now you’re just asking dumb questions.” Newt snaps at her, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I’m asking these questions to help you reconsider your self-image, Dr. Geiszler. You underwent a dramatic change, one largely out of your control--”

“How do you know I couldn’t control it?” Newt interjects, and Cerise levels a serious look at him, straightening in her chair.

“Do you think you’d be here right now if you could? If you had planned all this? Colluded willingly with the Precursors?” Newt doesn’t answer this question, because they both already know the answer. The PPDC investigators has examined his brain scans a dozen times over, looking for evidence that he’d somehow agreed to all this, that he’d cooperated. They’d wanted to nail him to the wall, and he couldn’t blame them. He just couldn’t believe that they hadn’t found an excuse to do it anyway. When she doesn’t get an answer, Cerise leans back in her chair and pulls her long black hair up and out of her eyes with a tortoiseshell clip. She’s a beautiful woman in her own right, but her pale face, imperious brow and long eyelashes remind him of someone else. “Dr. Geiszler. Newton. You really ought to at least try and answer my questions.”

“Why?”

“I can’t make you parse out this trauma. You have to do it yourself. I’m just here to guide you through it.” Newt turned his head toward Cerise’s office window, shielding him from the bright morning light by deep purple drapes. Her desk sits in front, neatly arranged with little mementos of her life outside this little room: her children and husband, a clay pinch-pot made with little hands, a stress ball shaped like a pineapple. A normal life, a simple life -- something he's never wanted until now, and something he felt he could never achieve, not after everything.

“Maybe.” He finally answers, his mouth sour and face downcast. “Maybe I don’t care.”

* * *

Newt doesn't want to admit it, but the loneliness starts to get to him quick. He doesn't have anyone to talk to except his therapist, and the techs that check his vitals when they bus him to the hospital. It's not like he's living in an institution, with other patients to talk to. He doesn't have a phone, or a laptop. He begins to wish he could get out of here, comfortable or not.

Then again, who would take him?

* * *

A week later, they call Newt in to a meeting, just as he’s about to settle into his bed with a pair of earbuds and one of his favorite mixes, ripped from an old CD he'd probably burnt 25 years ago. He rolls his eyes as they go through the motions of reading him the expectations for his behavior, holster their guns where he can see them, surround him as they walk down the hall. They go through these precautions because the Security Council insists on them. They make them seem more competent, more in control. He supposes it's fair -- he did almost kill someone with his bare hands.

These meetings almost always consisted of a reiteration of his rights as a ward of the PPDC, with some minor, meaningless changes that didn't amount to anything. Maybe he gets an extra fifteen minutes tacked on to his visiting hours; maybe he gets an increase in his allowance that he never spends. He wonders what it's going to be today, and feels a wry chuckle rise to his lips as the door opens. It shrivels up into a hoarse gasp as soon as he sees who sits at the table across from him.

“Dr. Geiszler, please have a seat.” His lawyer guides him in with a bright smile, and he sits down without a word, his mouth suddenly unbearably dry. Around the table sits a variety of people he never expected to see again. Marshal Hercules Hansen, his mouth a thin line and eyes still terribly sad; Secretary General Mako Mori, her sleeve pinned and eye covered with a patch; at the end of the table, hands folded, bruised throat concealed by his buttoned collar, the most unbelievable guest of all --

“Newton…” He says, his brown doe-eyes wide and shining with what Newt hopes aren't tears.

“What -- what is this?” Newt finally forces himself to ask, his eyes darting away from Hermann's face to that of his lawyer, her smile softening as she sits beside him.

“Just calm down, Newt. It's alright.” She pats his arm like a vet calming a dog before it's put down. He doesn't like this.

“Fuckin’ -- stop it! Tell me what the hell is going on!”

“Dr. Gottlieb has agreed to take custody of you.” Marshal Hansen answers, his voice gruff and low. “We're here 'cause we have to sign off on it -- Mako and I.” Newt’s mind goes quiet, fuzzy. They can't be serious, they can't. He lets his eyes float back to Hermann's. His tiny smile cuts him like a dagger shoved into his ribcage.

“Why?” He asks.

“Good question.” Hansen grunts, and his lawyer picks up where he leaves off quickly, before anyone else has a chance to speak.

“Your doctors have told us that staying secluded here won't help you progress through your treatment, so we had to find someone nearby to house and care for you. Dr. Gottlieb volunteered.”

“...he did, huh?” Newt stares at his own hands on the table, finding any excuse not to make eye contact.

“Yes, Newton.” Hermann answers for himself. He's oddly quiet, Newt thinks, and wonders if it might hurt him to talk.

“You can obviously refuse. You don't have to go, but it would allow you a lot more freedom, more liberty to do what you like. I can explain the accommodations in more detail, if you're interested.”

For a minute, Newt wonders if he's dreaming. He doesn't understand why Hermann would waste his time on something this time-consuming and trivial. Then again, it could just boil down to the same motivation as everyone else around him: pity and fear. 

“...of course I'm interested.”

* * *

His lawyer tells him that the PPDC has purchased a small home in Cartigny, on the outskirts of Geneva, for he and Hermann to live in while Newt finishes the rest of his rehabilitation. She outlines the conditions of the agreement -- there's many, but they essentially summarize as such: where he goes, Hermann goes. Hermann will send reports of Newt's behavior to the PPDC research team, and Newt will still come to the center for regular check-ups. In all actuality, she tells him, they're quite impressed with the rate of his recovery. They just don't know exactly what their dealing with. Newt responds that neither does he, and she tries to smile.

As she explains to him all these things, he looks down at the signatures on the various papers before him. Each one tells him something about their owners: Hansen's, quick and jerky, as if he had to force himself to write; Mako’s, deliberate and shaky -- she probably struggled to use her less dominant hand (her only hand, thanks to him); Hermann's, looping and dancing across the line like a work of art. Newt could almost imagine that he'd enjoyed it.

He signs his own name beneath Hermann's, in his comparably sloppy cursive, and his lawyer takes the papers and shoves them into an expandable folder marked “Geiszler, N.” With that, he found himself escorted back to his room, the door locking with a familiar click behind him. He laid down on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to hash out everything that had just happened.

Freedom -- of a sort.

Life in a small village like Cartigny would progress slowly, and he missed the sensation of moving fast. He missed the sharp edge of his brain, dulled by too much alcohol and not enough sleep over the course of years. He missed his ability to think on his feet, to sling witty comebacks and one-liners, to fight back against all the bureaucratic bullshit the PPDC had thrown at him. He felt numb, as if someone had injected morphine straight into his cerebellum.

He missed being himself.

They move him out of his borrowed room shortly thereafter, which takes no time since his belongings all fit in a messenger bag and a single cardboard box. They take him and his stuff in a sleek company car to his new home, which sits just outside of Cartigny. As they drive through the village, Newt gets a decent glimpse of the life he's to live for however long his keepers see fit. The streets sit largely empty this early in the morning, but he sees that the town has all the basics: a home good store, a grocery and farmer's market, an elementary school. It looks comfortable and boring, just like his other accommodations, but at least he can walk around without a pistol waiting just behind him.

He's surprised at the size of the house. It's plenty big for four or five people, let alone two. His lawyer explains that this way, he and Hermann can have privacy while living in the same home. She doesn't realize that the concept of privacy barely exists between himself and Hermann, though he supposes that ten-year gap left a lot of room for mystery. The house splits perfectly in half, with a shared kitchen and bath, and rooms upstairs that they can use as studies or workshops. A garden grows in back, and the former residents planted an apple tree that still bore fruit. Honestly, Newt had expected an apartment.

Newt picks up his bag from the floorboard as the car comes to a stop in the drive. Another car, much more modest, has already stationed itself there -- Newton guessed that had to be Hermann's, though considering the size of the village, he doubted they would use it often.

“Alright, Dr. Geiszler.” He really fucking wished they'd stop calling him that. He reached down and scratched his ankle monitor -- the only stipulation of this agreement he'd really hated. Why let him live out here with Hermann if they couldn't trust his ability to watch him?

_Because, dumbass. All you'd have to do is shove him down the stairs and you'd be scot-free._

“Ready when you are.” He shoots a too-wide grin, and follows her up the street and into the house. The furnishings made it feel less likely a home than a quaint vacation cottage wealthy folks trying to pretend at the country life. Everything looked pale -- clearly whoever had decorated chose to go the easy “everything works with grey” route. To be fair, everything looked meticulously clean, neat, and orderly. He had a feeling Hermann might have something to do with that.

“Dr. Gottlieb?” His lawyer called out, and after a moment, Newt could hear the familiar _tap-thunk_ of Hermann's stride heading to the front entryway. When he saw them standing there, he smiled; Newt attempted to reciprocate. He found it harder than he liked. He could tell they'd caught him off-guard; he'd unbuttoned his collar and rolled up his sleeves. Newt tries his very best not to stare and fails miserably.

“Good morning, Ms. Goodrich. I’m sorry, I would have, ah… I would have greeted you, but the office informed me you'd be here at noon.” Newt could see a slight twitch of irritation; some things never changed.

“I'm sorry, Doctor. I just thought it best to get this show on the road.”

“I see.” Hermann's brow furrowed for just a moment, but then he turned to Newt and the anger dissipated from his face. “Good morning, Newton.” Hermann approached, then stopped short, as if unsure whether to proceed with what he'd planned. “I'm very glad to see you.”

“Yeah, me too, Herms.” He answers automatically, and though it's true, he struggles to feel it.

“Come on inside. Make yourself comfortable--”

“I need to go over some things with you, Dr. Gottlieb.” His lawyer interjects, and Hermann clears his throat.

“Oh, yes. Of course. Newton, why not have a look at the living room? I'll see you shortly.” Hermann disappears with his lawyer into his office, leaving Newt alone in the hall. He wanders into the living room, as Hermann suggested, looking around vaguely at the furnishings: grey curtains made of a floating, delicate fabric accent a room filled with an assortment of comfortable, well-used furniture. A side table bears a number of little knick-knacks and a photo. He picks up the frame and .feels a lump rise in his throat as he recognizes the moment, frozen in time -- the day they saved the world, together. He doesn't remember much of that day, honestly; the rush and panic of it left many details fuzzy. He does remember the scratch off tweed against his cheek, slender arms wrapped tightly around him, Hermann's sly smile as he inched closer. Newt sits the frame back down gingerly, afraid to disturb that perfect image.

After a while, Hermann and Newt's lawyer return. She says her goodbyes, hands Hermann a thin folder, and heads out the door. Hermann watches her go, then turns back, a slow smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Newton, it's… it's been a long time since we've really gotten to talk.”

“What, you didn't count the time I almost killed you?” Newt laughs half-heartedly. A flicker of hurt passes across Hermann's face, then disappears.

“Have you had breakfast?” He asks, turning away without a mention of it.

* * *

Hermann makes quick work of fetching breakfast, setting out muffins -- banana walnut -- and starting a pot of coffee while a pan of bacon sizzled on the stove. The muffins taste fresh, and Hermann tells him as if on cue that he had baked them this morning. _Guess that explains the rolled-up sleeves._ Newt hadn't expected Hermann to cook so well, despite knowing his mother had spent a good deal of time with him and his siblings in the kitchen. Those memories, like all the rest he'd picked up from their Drift, stuck hard and fast like glue to the inside of his mind, in spite of all the damage he'd inflicted upon it. Newt wonders if his life is plastered to the inside of Hermann's skull, too: the fights, the mistakes, the successes and failures. He supposes it was good they Drifted before he'd _really_  fucked up.

“I missed having a kitchen while we worked for the PPDC.” Hermann says, flipping the bacon carefully with a pair of tongs. “I always feel more comfortable eating my own food, baking my own bread.” Newt doesn't answer, his mouth stuffed with muffin. God, they tasted good. He hadn't had anything this good in years, not even the fancy bullshit he bought in Tokyo. “Newton?”

Newt swallows quickly. “Yeah, heard you.” He chokes out through a dry throat.

“My apologies. I didn't realize you were eating.”

“It's fine, man.” Newt watches Hermann move back and forth between pouring the coffee, turning the bacon, adding sugar and cream… He moved as effortlessly as he had in the lab, in his element. Newt has never understood shit like this -- domestic skills. Last time he cooked something on a real stove he'd nearly burnt his apartment down. They'd phased out home-ec by the time he made it to high school, and to be honest neither his dad nor uncle knew much about that shit either. He could whip up a mean ramen cup, though.

“I take it you enjoyed the muffins.”

“Yeah, they're great.” Hermann places a plate of bacon in front of him.

“Eat this too. Don't want to fill up on bread.”

“Don't tell me what I wanna do, asshole.” Newt grins, and to his surprise Hermann reciprocates. He looks at him with the fondness of a man hearing a favorite song for the first time in years, a wistful, longing look that makes Newt's chest ache.

“My mistake.”

* * *

“So, what did my lawyer tell you?”

“Hm?” Hermann responds, not looking away from the dishes he's scrubbing.

“I can help with that, you know.” Newt diverts; he feels like an invalid, watching Hermann do and do and do.

“Please, let me.” Hermann smiles over his shoulder. “To answer your question, she outlined all of the conditions of this arrangement. She also informed me that I'll transport you to Geneva for your therapy sessions, as well as any tests or examinations.”

“Never thought you'd spend your retirement babysitting, huh?” Newt snorts, and he hears Hermann sigh through his nose.

“First of all, I'm not retired. I'm teaching online courses for several universities. Planar astrophysics, specifically. Second of all, I don't consider this babysitting, Newton.” Hermann turned the water off and proceeded to dry the dishes one at a time. Newt watched Hermann's fingers turn the plates and cups carefully, wiping them with great care before placing them on their respective shelves. “Really, this isn't much different than before, eh? We lived together in a tin can for ten years, almost never apart.”

Newt hadn't really thought of it that way, but God, they really had spent such a long time together. Then again, they had spent almost the same amount of time apart. The memory of a thousand ignored emails and desperate voice messages shoves its way to the front of his mind, and he takes a long swallow of hot coffee to wash it down.

“Well, anyway… can I ask why you decided to saddle yourself with this?” He asks, the burn of the coffee pooling in his stomach. He suddenly feels very tired.

“Of course. Two reasons: one, I thought it terribly unjust for you to simply languish like a glorified lab rat in that facility; two…” Hermann pauses here to wipe his hands on the front of his apron. He has tied the strings in a tight bow behind him, highlighting his slender frame and bony hips. Newt swallows hard. “Your father asked me to.”

“He -- he did? How'd he even contact you?” Hermann laughs softly and folds his drying towel over the oven handle.

“Newton, I have a public email account.”

“Right, right.” Newt trails off, preoccupied by what Hermann had just told him. His _father_? That confirms what he'd suspected: he'd proven too much of a burden for his own family. That knowledge hurts, but it doesn't surprise him. “What did he say exactly?”

“Only that he thought you'd be happier living with an old friend than with two ‘geezers’ -- that's how he put it.” Newt lets himself chuckle at that.

“Well, he's probably right. I haven't seen then in person for a long time.” Hermann's eyes soften around the edges.

“Perhaps we can arrange that? I would imagine it wouldn't be out if the question.” Newt nods, taking a long look at the inside of his mug. He sees his reflection in miniature, peering up at him from the shiny ceramic. He looks vague, blurry. He wonders if his family would even recognize him. “Newton?”

“Y-yeah, I'd like that.” He answers. Hermann chews on his bottom lip, as if considering what to say -- or whether to say it.

“I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, I have a video conference with a student. Please, feel free to have a better look around.” Hermann starts off, but stops halfway, looking back at Newt with those sad brown eyes. His lashes bat against his cheeks, and Newt wants to… well, he doesn't really need to think about that.

“Newton…” Hermann places a slender hand on Newt's arm. Their eyes meet, and Newt feels caught for a moment, hooked like a fish. Then, the moment is gone. Hermann smiles and pats his arm. “We'll get you ship-shape in no time.” He says, and it sounds like an afterthought

Newt turns away and listens to Hermann's uneven footsteps down the hall, as the sun pierces through the curtains on the kitchen window. A strip of light illuminates his forearm, slicing the head of Yamarashi in two. He yanks his sleeve down, anger lighting up the cavern of his chest, and heads out the back door.

* * *

Newt doesn't sleep the first night. He tosses and turns, listens to the ticking of the clock down the hall, watches the movement of moonlight across his wall, but sleep doesn’t come. Eventually he rises from his bed and makes his way down the stairs, out the door and into the small garden behind the house. He pulls his blanket around himself like a cloak as he makes his way into the wet grass. Above him, the Milky Way winds itself around the night sky, the stars crowded together so tightly they look like patches of glittering fog, nebulous like dew caught in a spider web.

He used to pay the stars little attention -- Hermann always had that covered. Christ, he got tired of hearing about it. _Who the fuck cares about space?_ He'd told Hermann too many times to count. He hadn't meant it  -- for God's sake, he was a scientist too, he understood -- but back then, he found shit to fight about. He picked fights to forget that everything around him teetered on the edge of a knife. Hermann had told him that space comforted him; the things that caused him pain all dwelt here, while in the void of the cosmos, all he'd know is wonder.

Standing out here alone, the stars feel like a hundred million spotlights, illuminating all his faults and mistakes. He should have stayed inside.

“Newton?” Hermann calls out from the tiny back porch, his eyes squinted. He wears a plain green bathrobe, hastily thrown over his old man pajamas, and his feet make no noise in his soft slippers. “What in God's name are you doing out here? It's nearly three in the morning.”

“Yeah, sorry. I'm… I'll come in.” Newt calls back, taking one last look at the night sky before heading toward the house.

“Good.” Hermann replies as he turns back into the house. “No reason to traipse around in the dark.” Newt almost thinks he hears Hermann’s trademark irritation in his voice and smiles. It's more comforting than any platitude.

* * *

The week rolls on. Hermann takes Newt to Geneva for his appointments, waiting dutifully outside the office each time until he's released back into his care. Cerise, his therapist, asks him all sorts of questions about his time with Hermann that he largely lies about -- yes, of course he's happy; everything's been fine. He doesn't mention how he and Hermann pass by each other in the hall like ghosts, how he can't sleep, how he wants to throw himself out the window and run.

“I'm surprised to hear you tell me you've experienced no problems.” She says as she scribbles down some notes on her tablet. “Have the residual Drift messages stopped?”

“Huh?” Newt looks up from picking at a stray thread in the arm of his chair. Cerise simply raises an eyebrow.

“Can you hear them anymore? The Precursors?” She asks more pointedly. Newt doesn't immediately answer, and this worries her, he can tell. She leans back in her chair and chews her bottom lip.

“Bet you wish you had a panic button, don't you?” Newt laughs bitterly and Cerise sighs.

“Please, Dr. Geiszler, answer me.”

“No.” He finally concedes, his heart heavy in a way that sickens him. “They're gone.” Cerise watches him carefully. “What?” He snaps.

“If you continue to lie, you're never going to get better.” She answers, her eyes hard and brows furrowed.

“Right. Well, maybe I'll just die crazy.” Newt throws his hands up in the air.

“You're not crazy.” Cerise counters, folding her hands in her lap. “You're hurt, and you keep picking at the wound. Let it heal, and you'll find your peace again.” Newt snorts, cleaning his glasses. She's right, but he can't admit that. Frankly, he doesn't want to. Forgiving himself won't wipe the memory of Hermann's windpipe giving way beneath his fingers.

“I'm done.” He says, fighting back tears of frustration. Cerise sighs.

“Fine. Go on, I'll see you next week, same time.” Newt drags his feet as he heads out, doesn't say a word as Hermann escorts him back to the car. They sit in silence on the drive, the stereo feeding a placid piano composition through the speakers. He watches Hermann's hands work around the wheel, notes how each tendon and ligament flexes beneath his pale skin. Newt wants to kiss them.

“Newton.” Hermann finally speaks, his voice cracking the silence like an ice pick. “I have done a great deal of thinking -- about you and I -- and I thought that we ought to make time soon for--”

“Hermann, you can just tell me whatever, okay?” Newt crosses his arms and looks out the window. Hermann doesn't answer for a moment, but when Newt looks back, he has gripped the wheel tighter.

“Why do you think I volunteered for this?” Newt doesn't expect this question, but he's got an idea. He shrugs, and Hermann softly laughs. “If I'm perfectly truthful, I didn't hesitate when they asked. They thought I'd gone mad.”

“Well, I did almost--”

“No.” Hermann interjects. “ _You_ did not do anything. The Precursors forced you to do those things.” Newt can feel his hand next to Hermann's, and he slowly retracts it.

“Okay, so why?” Newt prompts, and Hermann lets out a slow exhale.

“I love you, Newton.”

They sit in silence for the remainder of the trip home. He knows that Hermann's expecting an answer, a reaction, _something_ \-- he can't even summon up a smile. He already knows that Hermann loves him, but that's the worst part of this, more terrible than the hateful looks and the tests and the loneliness. Newt knows that Hermann loves him, but what he loves no longer exists.

As he and Hermann arrive home, the sound of distant thunder rumbles mutely across the sky. Newt feels a cool raindrop hit his face and roll lazily down his cheek. Behind him, Hermann fetches his bag, his face drawn and pale. By the time they settle in, the rain pounds the roof and thunder rattles the window panes. Hermann disappears into his office, and Newt retreats upstairs, burrowing under blankets as the storm blows on and on.

* * *

Like so many nights before, Newt dreams of killing Hermann.

In the dream, Newt's hands close around Hermann's neck hard, harder than he'd have been able to in the actual moment. Hermann's physical strength exceeds his own, and he's never cared much for having muscle tone. Of course now, after a helter-skelter routine of CrossFit and handles of whiskey, his body feels like it doesn't fit right anymore.

Newt's hands close around Hermann's throat, and he listens to the pathetic noises that escape his lips with a feeling almost like joy. He watches the light leave Hermann's eyes, bit by bit, until his hands slide away from Newts wrists and his arms fall to his side. He lets him drop to the floor; his body crumples with a sickening thud.

When he wakes up, he buries his face in his hands and cries, curled on his side beneath his duvet. These dreams hurt every time, not because of what he does, but because of the sensations they leave him with: the satisfaction of victory, the sickening pleasure of conquest that does not belong to him, but still feels so _good._

Newt freezes as he hears the distinctive _tap-thump_ of Hermann's footfalls and covers his head with his duvet. Thankfully, Hermann doesn't open the door, but he does knock. When Newt doesn't answer, Hermann calls out his name. Newt feels as if his tongue has swollen to the size of a grapefruit; he can barely swallow, much less respond -- and anyway, he doesn't want Hermann to see him this way, cowering from his own dreams like a child.

Hermann gives up after a third try. Newt listens to his footsteps disappear down the hall, painfully aware of the silence left in his wake. _Hermann doesn't deserve this,_ he thinks to himself. He shouldn't have to shackle himself to a broken shell of a man.

The _tap-thump_ returns, and Newt holds his breath. Why had Hermann changed his mind? The door opens with a nearly inaudible _click_ , and Newt shut his eyes tight. After a moment, he hears the clink of china on the table beside him, and the smell of chamomile wafts to his nostrils. Then, he's gone as soon as he came, closing the door right behind him. When he's sure that Hermann has returned to his side of the house, Newt sits up slowly and cradles the mug between his hands The warmth of the ceramic bleeds into his palms, radiates against his knees and chest. It grounds him to this moment, makes him forget for a moment about the demons clawing around inside his mind. He doesn't drink it until it has gone cold.

* * *

The next day, Hermann and Newt work together in the garden. Newt tells Hermann it's “just something to do”, and honestly he's not lying, but he feels better knowing he's helping out around here. Besides, as he's digging into the cool earth, pulling weeds, watching ants toil and beetles scurry away from his hands, he remembers bit by bit how it feels to be Newton Geiszler. He remembers long days in the sun, nearly 40 years past, digging for treasure while his uncle collected algae samples and his father captured ripples in a pond on canvas. He remembers happiness.

Hermann has cultivated a variety of herbs and flowers in this garden -- Newt recognizes basil, thyme, oregano and dill, and in a bed ringed with stones Hermann has neatly trimmed a pink rosebush. He hadn't realized Hermann knew how to do all this: the baking, the gardening. He hadn't seen much of it in the Drift, which made sense, he supposed. As an astrophysicist, he spent more time at his chalkboard than at a stove or a trowel. The War stole all these simple things from everyone: at one time, Newt played in a band and wrote music, and Tendo used to run marathons -- of course, you wouldn't believe it the way he had scarfed down coffee and bagels in LOCCENT like his life depended on it. Seeing this side of Hermann for the first time makes him wonder where he'd be if none of this had ever happened, if they'd never met.

Hermann stands up and removes his gloves with a sigh of satisfaction before turning to Newt. He's got a smear of mud on his cheek, and his hair has curled over his brow, slightly damp from perspiration. Newt thinks he looks beautiful.

“Well, I think that's all that needs done for now, Newton. Shall we head inside?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sounds good.” Newt wipes his hands absently on the front of his jeans, then realizes that he hasn't done this in years. One doesn't wipe their hands on $300 silk trousers, after all. The impulse to destroy fills him all of a sudden, and he grins, wiping them on the back pockets as well. Hermann laughs.

“You know, you _can_ wash them when we go inside.”

“I know.” Newt shrugged, walking past Hermann into the house. “But who gives a fuck?”

“Who, indeed?” Hermann replies, so softly Newt almost misses it.

While they're eating lunch, a PPDC freight truck pulls into their drive. As they eat, they want several men in jumpsuits moving boxes into their living room -- Newt realizes after a moment that they're _his_ boxes, stuffed with all the things he'd left behind in Hong Kong. He leans back in his chair and looks away, taking a long drink of the milk Hermann set out for him. He doesn't want to go there. He doesn't want to sift through the particulates of his life to find his soul again.

“Oh, for God's sake.” Hermann frowns, his thin lips curling into a dissatisfied sneer. “They told me they'd be delivering on the weekend. I'd have cleared out space if they'd called ahead.” Hermann rises to his feet and makes his way to the delivery men, sternly ordering them about and directing them with his cane like a traffic controller. Newt smiled as he munched on some carrot sticks; _this_ was the Hermann he remembered, both interminably stubborn and incredibly fiery; prickly, stuck in his ways. He'd hated that about Hermann, once upon a time.

Before long, the men finish their job and march off, Hermann watching them leave like a wary guard dog before heading back into the house. Just like he had in Tokyo, Hermann has thrown himself between Newt and everyone else, taken up for him and protected him. In fairness, a bunch of cardboard boxes hurt less than a bullet, at least when they're taped shut.

“Alright, Newton. Well…” Hermann looks around at the crowded room with an expression of silent resignation. “We've our work cut out for us, don't we?”

“Look, man… just toss it all.” Newt mumbles into his half-empty plate. “It's just a bunch of old junk.” Hermann frowns and moves back into the kitchen.

“Junk? Nonsense, Newton, these -- they're your belongings! They mean a great deal to you. I know, you told me so: all of your vintage movies, your figures, your _clothing--_ ”

“Yeah, its all crap I've not seen or touched in almost a decade, Hermann. I can barely remember what's even in there.” Newt replies a little too loudly, and Hermann gets another sad look in his eyes that makes him regret it.

“Perhaps, then… it might help to remember?” Hermann offers. Newt moves past him down the hall without another word, trying not to think about his hurt expression as he retreats into his room and shuts the door.

* * *

Newt doesn't want to remember who he used to be, and frankly he doesn't want to remind Hermann either. He had decided this back in the car, when Hermann had told him he loved him. He decides this because he knows that man no longer exists, and though he's sure the old Newt will rattle around somewhere in Hermann's head for the rest of his life, he can't pretend to be that man. He can't impose a fantasy on Hermann, not after everything he did to him.

Ironically, he remembers all of _that_ \-- all the ignored phone calls, the half-written emails never sent, the shitty attitude he had given him about his kaiju rocket fuel and the way he had rolled his eyes when he'd embraced him. The Precursors hadn't forced Newt to do that; they'd ordered him to push Hermann away, but he'd chosen to do so in the cruellest ways possible. He knew all of Hermann's weak points and had played them like a goddamn fiddle. He wonders if Hermann ever thinks about that while he's fixing Newt's dinner or washing his laundry. He wonders if Hermann regrets bringing him here.  

He wakes one morning before Hermann's even beginning to stir and makes his way down to the towers of boxes containing his former life. He fetches a sharp paring knife and chooses his first victim: a small box labeled “Miscellaneous”. _Sounds vague enough_ , he thinks as he puts through the tape holding the box shut. It hisses as he slides the knife through, rasps drily as he pulls the top flaps apart. This box truly contains a miscellany of things: a set of leather bracelets held together with a twist-tie, a box of seriously expired condoms, some pens and pencils, and a few folded up pieces of paper, yellowed with age. He pulls them out -- some are Post-Its with Kaiju biopsy notes written in chicken scratch, one is a shopping list…

One of them is a note from Hermann. It's dated, because of course it is: 01/19/2023, his birthday two years before Operation Pitfall, two years before he Drifted with Hermann.

 

_Newton,_

_Happy birthday -- you'll forgive me for the lack of a card, but know that I owe you a birthday dinner, wherever you like. We all need something to look forward to. Best wishes._

_Hermann, Jan. 19, 2023_

 

Newt snorts. A fine sample of Hermann's stellar communication skills. Hermann used to have such a difficult time expressing himself; now it looked as if Hermann could barely contain his emotions. Had Newt done that to him? Had he broken down that seemingly impenetrable wall? Of course that begged another question: had Newt built his own walls in response? Did that Drift with Hermann…

No. He can't put that on Hermann's shoulders. This was _his_ fuck-up, and only his.

Nevertheless, the thought followed him back into the kitchen while he put the knife away, up the stairs and underneath his covers. It crept into the cracks of his mind, made him wonder if Hermann hadn't taken this on out of pity… but out of guilt.

He’d know, if anybody would. Hermann had seen the brain scans, studied their Drift recordings as a part of his PPDC work. Maybe the Drift had weakened Newt's neural pathways just enough, stretched his executive function a little too thin… Maybe Hermann had realized a three-way Drift -- _his_ suggestion -- could destroy a man's mind, rather than protect it.

He fell asleep fitfully, his mind consumed by fear and anger. As he slept, he dreamt of drowning in salt water. 

* * *

Hermann and Newt spent the next few days digging through Newt's things in relative silence. Every so often, Hermann would ask Newt if he wanted to keep something or throw it away, and he'd nod or shake his head. Otherwise, they sat in the living room, quiet as a grave, with only the rustling of newspaper and cardboard to keep them company. Newt can tell that Hermann's worried; his brow stays knotted and his fingers twiddle his pen nervously. He barely looks at Newt, though honestly Newt does the same. They sit across from each other, divided by a gulf of turbulent memories.

Finally, after nearly two hours of this, Hermann speaks. Newt's exhausted, emotionally and physically from sorting and moving all this shit around, and God he just doesn't wanna hear it, but Hermann talks anyway.

“We've made a great deal of progress, haven't we?” He says cheerfully, or rather as close to cheerful as he can muster. Newt looks at his hands.

“Yeah, sure.” He grunts.

“....what's wrong, Newton?” Hermann asks in a timid, pleading voice. That sets Newt off suddenly; like a Roman candle he shoots up to his feet and knocks one of the cardboard boxes to the floor. Something inside it shatters and Hermann flinches, but he doesn't look away. Newt feels heat rushing to his face, he's suddenly angrier than he's felt in years.

“ _Fuck you._ You know what's wrong!” Newt clenches his fists; he has to push down the urge to punch Hermann square in the jaw. “You and those fucking therapists and scientists all know! You -- you fucked me up! It was _you!”_

“Newton, what on Earth are you talking about?” Newt watches Hermann’s face flood with hurt, but it isn't enough to stop him.

“Yeah, okay. Try to act stupid. Why else would you volunteer for this shit?!” Newt laughs, and he thinks he sounds insane, but he really doesn't care. “How dare you try and play dumb? You drifted with me and that Kaiju brain and it messed me up! It made it easier for them to fuck with my brain and-- and you…” Newt feels his argument unraveling, and he flushes with shame as he realizes just how insane he sounds. Hermann says nothing, but his expression speaks volumes. They stand frozen in this horrible moment until Hermann finally responds.

“Newton... you have no idea how often I wondered that very same thing.” He smiles, or at least tries to, but his eyes gleam with unshed tears and his jaw trembles. Newt wants to fall to his knees and pick up the pieces of what he’s just broken, but he knows it’s too late. “I thought that perhaps my involvement in the Drift had corrupted the link between ourselves and the Kaiju. One person Drifting with one of those creatures caused enough havoc, but what about two? Undoubtedly, sharing the load saved your mind from serious damage, but who could say what long-term effects would remain?” Hermann pauses, taking a long breath through his nose. Newt tries not to hear the shudder in it. “I had to know for certain. I checked those scans over and over again, and could find no evidence to support that theory, and yet…” His smile flags and fades. “I still failed you, didn’t I?”

By now, all of Newt’s indignation has burned off, leaving only a heavy, shriveled mass of guilt and regret inside him. He opens his mouth to say something -- apologize, reassure, anything to take it back, but Hermann has already begun slowly walking away. Newt listens as he makes his way down the hall. A door opens, then gently shuts, leaving Newt in a terrible silence as empty and profound as the bottom of the sea.

* * *

A few days later, Hermann suggests they go out for a picnic. Newt agrees; he's grateful for an excuse to get out of the house, away from the reminders of the fight they'd had before. He wonders if this isn't Hermann's attempt at offering an olive branch, and feels guilty that he hadn't already done so. After all, Hermann hadn't thrown a tantrum like a fucking child.

Hermann packs their lunch in a basket -- a fucking _basket,_ like it's 1950 -- and charges Newt with holding it in his lap as they drive out of town, notably just within the city limits. As they drive, Newt peeks inside the basket to see what exactly Hermann had packed; from what he could tell, it looked like a pretty typical spread of meats and cheeses, condiments, a jar of pickles and some standard sandwich toppings, along with a freshly-baked loaf of bread. Hermann explains that his mother had always baked her own bread, and he did the same when he could, along with practically every German family he'd ever known.

“Funny. Dad always just bought Wonder Bread and called it a day.” This makes Hermann smile, and Newt feels accomplished for the first time in a long, long while.

They arrive, and Hermann takes his time climbing up the small rise to the spot he's chosen. Newt goes ahead of him and spreads out the blanket, noticing as soon as he turns that they have a lovely view of Cartigny from here. In fact, the whole scene is downright picturesque: trees rustle gently in the breeze, clouds lazily pass across the sky, and all around them a variety of wildflowers lazily bob their heads. Right out of a fucking storybook.

“Thank you, Newton. If you please, unpack the basket and I'll…” Hermann sits down with some difficulty as Newt unloads their lunch. Newt watches the pain manifest in his drawn grimace and furrowed brows, and then it's gone.

“Hey, uh… Hermann, can I ask you something?” Newt asks once Hermann has settled in beside him.

“Naturally. Please pass me the bread, would you? I'll cut it, thank you very much, I remember you have an abysmal hand.”

“Wow, thanks.” Newt rolls his eyes before he continues. He doesn't want to ask this question, but it has nagged at him ever since Hermann had originally admitted his feelings for him. Quite frankly, he'd rather talk about that than the incident from the other day. “Did you mean it when you said you love me?” Hermann freezes with the bread knife poised over a third slice, the other two stacked on a plate.

“Yes, Newton. Of course I meant it.” He replies before finishing his work and wrapping the bread in the linen dishcloth he's brought for the purpose. His expression grows concerned, and Newt almost abandons the conversation altogether -- almost.

“It's just, you know… Things have changed since the first time you told me that.”

“I'm aware, Newton.” Hermann answers quietly, primly folding his hands in his lap while Newt hungrily prepares his sandwich.

“Okay, so that's my question, right? I'm not really Newt anymore.” Hermann’s eyes flash dangerously, but Newt keeps going. “Things change. If you don't want--” Hermann sits in silence for a long while, long after Newt has piled his sandwich plate with grapes and cherries. He quietly wishes Hermann believed in potato chips, but at least he packed a pie.

“Nonsense.” Hermann finally answers. “You _are_ Newt. Who else could you be?” Newt laughs nervously at that.

“Good question, right? I'm kinda… I've turned into some sort of fucked up homunculus that used to be Newt Geiszler. Now I'm--”

“Hush.” Hermann glares at him, but his eyes do not harden. “You _are_ Newton Geiszler, no matter what terrible things those beasts made you say or do, no matter how they twisted your mind to make you believe them.” Newt shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich.

“Maybe. None of you really know what went through my head.” Hermann sighs.

“Perhaps not. I do know that…” He pauses for a moment, and Newt thinks he hears his voice crack. “I do know that Newton Geiszler did not try to kill me.”

“Right.” Newt takes a long look out at the town below. “You don't have to pretend everything's okay, Hermann. The other day…”

“The other day, you were overwhelmed by the task we'd undertaken. It's understandable. Confronting your past… can be difficult.” Hermann smiles and passes him a bottle of water. “Drink. You'll make yourself sick, scarfing all that down without so much as a sip of liquid.”

“Make me.”

“You see? You're not so different, after all.” Hermann rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn't fade. “You know, I missed that. Your petty jabs and arguments.”

“ _Mine?_ Oh, okay, sure. Because you _never_ picked fights with me.” Newt grumbles, taking a long drink. The water is so cold it burns his throat going down.

“Fair enough.” Hermann chuckles, then turns to look at Newt with a soft, earnest expression that twists Newt's stomach into knots. “Newton… May I kiss you?”

“What?” Newt flushes in spite of himself and looks past Hermann's warm brown eyes. “Haha, why -- why would you--”

“May I?” Hermann repeats, leaning closer. Newt can feel the warmth of his body, and it makes him yearn for touch. He remembers, suddenly and painfully, that he has not felt a kind touch in nearly a decade. Newt swallows hard, then nods, and Hermann's eyes crinkle at the edges as he slides one hand along the back of his neck, into his hair. Newt closes his eyes and feels tears stinging in their corners, but he can't care. He doesn't care, and anyway they never make it down his face; Hermann kisses them away.

“Hermann…” Newt's voice cracks as he leans into Hermann's hand, which now cups his cheek.

“Yes?” Hermann's voice barely reaches a whisper.

“You shouldn't--”

“Don't tell me what to do, Newton Geiszler.” Hermann murmurs before closing the space between them.

Hermann's kiss shocks Newt with both its heat and its tenderness. Hermann doesn't push, doesn't force; he applies as much pressure as he needs to pull Newt out, invite him to respond. He does, placing his hands on either side of Hermann's face and deepening the kiss himself, the knowledge of how and where and when, and most importantly why, returning to him like in a flood. He hears Hermann make something like a grunt in the back of his throat and take a breath through his nose. The fact Hermann didn't want to move away was… well, for lack of a better word, sexy as hell. Newt feels wanted, a foreign feeling that makes his heart throb in his chest.

“Hermann…” Another tear escapes the corner of Newt's eye, and this prompts Hermann to finally break away to wipe it with his thumb. Hermann closes his eyes, his lips red and slightly parted. He looks exaltant, Newt thinks. Did he really have that much of an effect on him?

Surely he hadn't waited all this time?

“Did I upset you?” Hermann looks concerned, and Newt shakes his head.

“No, sorry… just something in my eye. Why don't you go ahead and kiss me again?” Hermann smiles softly and obliges him.

* * *

After this, Newt notices that Hermann finds all sorts of excuses to touch him. As Newt's bent over one of Hermann's flower beds, he reaches down to touch his neck as he passes; when Newt moves behind him at the sink, Hermann makes sure to step back just enough so that they brush against each other. Newt doesn't mind; honestly, he does the same shit, just in different ways and at different times. They orbit each other now, like two stars constantly revolving in space, fixated on nothing but each other.

Cerise looks surprised when she can barely get a word in edgewise at his next therapy session. She simply sits back in her chair, brows raised and pen sitting lifeless in her hand, until Newt notices and stops.

“Am I going too fast?” He asks, shifting in his chair.

“No, no. Um, I guess I didn't expect you to snap back this quickly. It's good, I just…”

“Just what?”

Cerise hesitates, crossing her legs and putting her pen behind her ear. “You and Dr. Gottlieb. You told me you maintained a relationship ten years ago?”

“Yeah, but… I mean, what's the big deal?” Newt frowns. “Look, this might be Hermann's job, but--”

“It's not that. I just want to make sure that you both have realistic expectations about this relationship. You understand it's different, right?”

“Sure, I… Yeah. Duh. Obviously.” Newt feels his stomach churn. He doesn't want her to do this, make him question and second-guess.

“Does he?” Cerise asks, and Newt feels his vision swim. Ten years had changed both of them, and while Hermann had grown more confident and comfortable in his own skin, Newt could barely look at himself in the mirror. He'd made progress, to be sure, but… the old Newton Geiszler had drowned, dragged down into the Breach, and this new one, well… He wasn't sure. “The reason I ask--”

“I _know_ why you're asking.” Newt spits. “Its because…” He bites the inside of his cheek and realizes once he tastes blood that he's been doing it the entire time. “Look, I've thought the same thing, okay? He just…”

“Dr. Geiszler, I'm not trying to upset you. It's just that you've gone through a lot of changes, and so has he. There's no reason to jump to conclusions, but you might want to have a conversation with him about it. Okay?”

Newt swallows and nods, doesn't trust himself to answer with words. He can't ask Hermann that question. He doesn't know if he can survive the answer. After all, how could he love him as he is? Hermann barely knows this man he's transformed into; Newt barely knows _himself_.

Hermann drives him home, just as a quiet rain cloud passes over them. The rain pitter-patters against the windshield, and the wipers swing back and forth, creating a kind of metronome. He clings to that sound, and some of the tightness in his chest abates. Good thing he actually listened in Psychology class.

Newt doesn't see Hermann gazing over at him with worry, but he does feel his cool hand snake into his. He feels Hermann's thin fingers squeeze, his thumb gently swipe over his skin in a gentle caress.

“I would never prevail upon you to discuss your sessions with me, but…” Hermann heaves a sigh. “Please know I will listen to whatever you want to say.” This bursts the bubble swelling in Newt's throat, and he cries ugly and messy, clutching at his hair and wailing. Newt doesn't see Hermann turn into an old dirt farm road and park the car, but when his arms encircle him, he throws himself against Hermann's chest and clings for dear life until he's exhausted, panting for breath. Hermann holds him long after silence falls over them again, but this time it's comfortable, like slipping into a warm bath.

“Newt…” Hermann murmurs into his hair as he rubs circle's into his back. “Newt, it's alright now.” Hermann's platitudes fade into a fuzzy murmur, a distant echo caught between mountains.

* * *

When Newt wakes up, the storm has swelled with a renewed vigor, beating at the windows and rapping against the roof. Nothing stirred in the house, save for the occasional creak as a gust of wind tested its walls. Newt eased out of bed, wondering briefly how he ended up here at all. _He carried me._ He marvels, and worries that Hermann might have hurt himself in the process.

“Herms?” Newt says quietly, in barely more than a whisper. He gets no answer, except the crash of lightning and a bright flash that makes him jump. He hears his heart thunder in his ears and he closes his eyes, holds his breath. Jesus Christ, it’s just a storm, but perhaps it’s the greater fear of what he’ll find when he tracks Hermann down.

Newt hears something like a whimper down the hall, and he notices that Hermann’s door stands ajar, just slightly. He creeps down the hall and the pitiful sound grows louder. Newt's stomach coils into knots, and he chews his bottom lip. _He's having a nightmare._ He pushes the door open and steps inside; now he can see Hermann tossing and turning underneath the covers, one hand reaching out and clawing at the sheets beneath him. His brow furrows into an expression of intense fear, and his breath comes in shuddering gasps.

“Hermann…” Newt gently sits down on the edge of Hermann’s bed and shakes his shoulder. “Hermann, hey!” He whispers sharply, and with another firm shake Hermann wakes with a start, jerking upright and crying out in fear. His eyes, dark and dilated with terror, focus on Newt and he reaches out, grabbing Newt by the front of his T-shirt. “Hey, hey…. C’mon, dude. It's ok.” Newt places his hands on each of Hermann’s wrists, easing his fingers free. “Just relax.”

“N-newton… I’m sorry.” He jerks his hands away and straightens the blankets around him. Newt knows that Hermann hates to appear vulnerable; he knows this, and yet cannot help but miss the feeling of Hermann's skin on his own.

“Herms, it's really okay.” Newt reassures him. “You didn't wake me up.”

“Maybe not, but I -- I should go back to sleep..” Hermann tries to turn away, but Newt moves closer, holds Hermann's wrist just tight enough to compel him to stay.

“Weren't kidding about those nightmares, huh?” Newt tries to smile, but Hermann's troubled expression makes it hard. “Remember? You told me--”

“I remember, Newton.”

Another clap of thunder and the room flickers with a brilliant light. He can see Hermann's face fall as he sighs in resignation. free hand over Newt's. In the frenetic flash of lightning, Newt maneuvers himself closer. He can feel Hermann's breath on his jaw, and he suppresses a shudder. Once again, that gnawing ache returns, and he wants nothing more than to get closer, closer. He wonders if, after all this time, their minds can possibly have retained that connection forged on a freezing night in a Hong Kong street.

“Hermann,” he begins. “Do you really--”

“Love you?” Hermann asks carefully, lifting the thought from Newt’s lips and his hand to Newt's face. “You daft, darling man. Of course I do. For all those years, I wanted nothing else but to see you again.”

“How can you just forgive me? How can you just take for granted that I’m not going to hurt you again?” Hermann doesn’t immediately answer; his eyes scan Newt’s face as if memorizing every detail, and when at last he seems satisfied he chuckles, a wry smile on his lips.

“Newton, we spent the better part of our lives hurting each other.”

“You never strangled me.” Newt snipes.

“Neither did you.” This silences Newt for a while, so Hermann continues. “Newton, I don’t expect you to magically transform into the man I knew ten years ago. In fact, I don’t _want_ that.”

“Well, then what _do_ you want?” Newt asks in a low, humming voice. He smiles mischievously as Hermann's cheeks grew hot.

“I - I want--” Hermann stutters. “I want you here, with me. That’s enough.” Newt presses a kiss to the inside of Hermann's forearm and nuzzles the soft skin there. He can feel Hermann’s pulse quicken against his stubbled cheek, and Hermann slides his hands into his hair. “Stay, please.”

Newt gives the bed a cursory glance and raises an eyebrow.

“Is your bed even big enough?” Hermann lays back and pulls Newt to his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of Newt’s head.

“I’ll make room.” Newt nods and nuzzles his head into his chest, then remembers suddenly what had brought him here in the first place. “Hermann… what did you dream about?” Hermann says nothing, but Newt feels his body stiffen ever-so-slightly. The storm finally seems to abate, leaving nothing but a calm, steady rainfall that lulls Newt to sleep, in spite of his curiosity. Tomorrow, he’d make Hermann tell him. Tomorrow…

* * *

Newt forgets to ask, and nearly a week goes by before Hermann has another nightmare, this one much louder and more frightening than the last. Again, Newt goes to comfort him; this time it takes longer. Hermann flinches away from his touch unconsciously, and he remains stiff and morose even after Newt has gotten him calm. Newt knows why, and after he returns to his room, it's all he can think about.

The morning after, Newt sits with his coffee cradled in his hands and watches as Hermann fetches some cereal and milk from the cupboard, then begins to prepare his own breakfast -- a pot of oatmeal. Hermann’s pain manifests physically, and Newt can clearly see it in the way Hermann grips his cane, the more pronounced curve of his back, the deeper limp. Newt lets him finish and bring his breakfast to the table before he speaks.

“So, tell me what you dreamt about.” He asks as Hermann blows into his steaming bowl. Hermann noticeably flinches, then gives Newt a half-hearted smile.

“Oh, well -- you’ve had dreams like that before, Newton. You said so yourself, just--”

“You screamed my name. You didn't want me to touch you.” Hermanns face drains of color and he casts his eyes downward, stirring his oatmeal with far too much attention than the task deserved. “You dreamed about me, didn’t you? You dreamed about me hurting you.”

“Newton, please don’t -- don’t take it personally, it’s just a dream. I can’t control them.”  
“I screwed you up bad enough that you have fucking _nightmares_ , Hermann.” Newt frowns and crosses his arms. Hermann can't seem to come up with an answer to that, and although Newt concedes that it's fair, it still hurts. It reminds him that no matter how much he recovers, that part of his mistakes will remain, boiling underneath their relationship like a dormant volcano. He wonders how long it will take for Hermann to erupt.

“Newton, please don't put that on yourself.” Hermann says quietly, reaching across the table to skirt his fingers over the top of Newt's hand. Newt takes it, and their fingers lace together naturally, like they're made for this.

“There's nobody else to pin it on, Hermann.” He mutters, finishing his coffee. “Nobody but me.” He swallows, feels the hot liquid course through him and fights off a shiver. “Wish you'd tell me. I can take it.” He looks up at Hermann, and the broken look on his face tells him everything he needs to know. Hermann looks out the kitchen window, and Newt sees a tear hanging from his long lashes. “You don't have to keep doing this, Hermann.” That gets Hermann's attention; he snaps his head back toward him and gives him a look somewhere between fear and confusion.

“Do...do what, Newton?”

“Torture yourself for my sake. Force yourself to take care of me out of some fucked-up sense of responsibility.” Newt hears the words tumbling out of his mouth. He knows he's pushing Hermann away; maybe he'll succeed. It's honestly what they both deserve. “You have better things to do than chase after some idea of me that doesn't exist.”

“Newton.” Hermann's voice cuts through Newt like a well-honed knife. “Don't you think I know that? I _volunteered_ for this--”

“Yeah, because you love a dead man.”

“ _Because_ _I love you, Newton!”_ Hermann jumps to his feet and grasps his cane. Newton can tell he's hurt himself; his fault. “For God's sake! I know you're not the same! How could you be? It doesn't matter!” Hermann chokes out a sob, tears rolling down his face freely now as he pushes his hair away from his brow. “How can I make you understand that I'll love you no matter _what_ you are? Tell me that, Newton! Tell me what I have to do!” Hermann covers his face and purses his lips, silent sobs racking his body as he tries to catch his breath.

Newt sits stunned as he watches Hermann cry. He has never seen Hermann so much as sniffle until just recently; to see him break down like this made his chest ache. He wants to pull him close and hold him tight, but his limbs feel numb, and he doesn't trust his legs to hold him up. Hermann finally takes a shuddering breath and wipes his eyes, the worst of his outburst abated. The stillness in the kitchen suffocates Newt, and he tries to speak, but Hermann beats him to the punch.

“I'm… I'm so sorry, Newton, I…” Hermann bites his lip and makes his way down the hall, out the back door and into the garden, leaving Newt stranded in the silence, alone.

* * *

The next morning, after weeks of silence, Newt's lawyer returns to the house, a large folder in one hand and a briefcase slung over her shoulder. Hermann lets her in and she sits down at the kitchen table, spreading her things out before her.

“Good morning, Ms. Goodrich.” Hermann tilts his head a bit, a confused expression on his face. “I'm sorry, I must have missed your call.”

“I didn't call.” She answers quickly, pulling a paper from her folder. “I needed to talk in person. Dr. Geiszler is having a hearing at the end of the week, and we need to talk strategy.” Newt's heart stops for a moment. A hearing? His vision swims. _They're taking you away from him,_ the hateful voice in the back of his head warns. It's not the Precursors’, not anymore. It's an evil, loathing voice all his own.

“A hearing? Regarding what?” Hermann asks, folding his hands on the table. His eyes narrow suspiciously, as if glaring daggers into Goodrich’s face.

“Regarding his release from your care.” Hermann doesn't respond immediately; he looks to Newt and attempts a comforting smile. “Dr. Gottlieb, it's probably best if we discuss it alone.”

“Why?”

“If Dr. Geiszler involves himself in our discussion, it might damage his case. The PPDC authorized your testimony, and yours alone.”

“That's absurd.” Hermann snorts.

“That's what you agreed to.” Goodrich immediately counters, and Hermann sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Don't you think his own testimony might help the council understand that he has recovered?” Newt shakes his head and touches Hermann's arm.

“It’s fine. I'll go.” He rises and leaves Hermann and his lawyer alone. For all his progress, it seemed he still serves as nothing but a stumbling block, a liability even to himself. He makes his way up the stairs, then stops halfway to eavesdrop. At the very least, he can learn what's going on.

“...going to tell them the truth. There's no need… lie to them, he has improved.”

Hermann says, and Newt moves closer to the edge of the wall, enough to hear more clearly.

“Well, if you tell them that they'll most likely discharge him from your care. They don't want to keep funding this arrangement forever.” Hermann scoffs.

“Of course not. Why would they want to help someone who literally sacrificed their sanity to make _them_ heroes?” Newt's eyes widen, and he feels butterflies dancing in his stomach. He's never heard himself described that way; as a hero. It feels good on it’s own, but to hear it from Hermann… He can almost believe it.

“It's a finance issue.” His lawyer replies drily. “We can't just demand they throw money at Dr. Geiszler forever.”

“The hell I can't.” Hermann snaps back, his tone angry and keen, like the edge of a sword. “He deserves more than this. He deserves…” Hermann's voice falters. “He deserves everything.”

“I know you feel that way. Please, just--”

“Like I said, ma’am. I'll tell the truth.” Hermann shuts the book on the conversation just like that, and Newt makes his way back up the stairs, slipping into the bathroom while his lawyer leaves. When he peeks out, he sees Hermann standing at the door, still half-open. Part of him feels guilty for hiding behind him, but the other part knows he doesn't belong anywhere else, not anymore.

“Newton…” Hermann finally calls out to him in a trembling voice. “I know we've grown very close in our time together here. However, if you -- if you so choose, I will say whatever I need to ensure that the Council frees you from my care. I don't want to hold you back.” Newt moves carefully toward him as Hermann continues to speak. “My outburst the other day was… out of line. It wasn't my intention to cause you pain or guilt. I just…” Before Hermann can finish his sentence, Newt wraps his arms around him and squeezes him tight to his chest. He presses his forehead into the space between Hermann's shoulder blades, and they stand there silent for a long time. Newt feels Hermann's body shaking with quiet sobs, hears his breath come ragged, and he holds him tighter.

“Hermann… shut up.” He mutters into the scratchy fabric of Hermann's cardigan. “Just shut up, dude.” He does, opting instead to turn around and bury his face in Newt’s hair.

* * *

“State your name for the record, please.”

“Dr. Hermann Gottlieb.”

Newt and Hermann sit together in front of a panel of stern individuals, all dressed in some variation on suit and tie. On the far end, Mako Mori and Marshal Hercules Hansen talk to each other in hushed voices. They've all come to essentially address Newt's parole: can they release newt on his own recognizance, or does he requires further observation?

He expects Hermann to say no, especially given what Newt had done, how badly he'd hurt him. Then again, maybe Hermann would try to get rid of him. He wouldn't blame him for that either. Somehow, both possibilities made him nervous, but he didn't want Hermann to leave. Newt needed him. He hoped Hermann needed him too, that he's not just become an irritation.

“Very well. Dr. Gottlieb, you have taken charge of Dr. Geiszler's rehabilitation for… how long?”

“Approximately two months.”

“During that time, has Dr. Geiszler demonstrated signs of recovery?”

“Yes.”

“Could you elaborate?”

Hermann does so. He tells the panel about how Newt has helped him in the garden, how he's grown interested in his old pursuits again. He tells them how Newt unpacked all his things, hung his posters and set up his figurines, how his room looks more or less like it used to. He tells them that Newt's eaten very well, that he doesn't fight him, that he's very well-behaved. He mentions nothing about the nightmares, or about the outburst the week before. Most conspicuously of all, he doesn't mention their relationship.

 _What relationship?_ Newt asks himself. _It's not like a kiss and a hug makes them a couple._ He knows better, knows that their bond transcends anything he's ever felt before, but that spiteful voice in his head tries anyway to detail his thoughts. Asshole.

“I see. In your opinion as Dr. Geiszler's friend and colleague, do you consider his rehabilitation complete?”

“I'm not sure what you mean by 'complete’.” Hermann replies with a puzzled frown.

“Do you believe that Dr. Geiszler could leave your supervision and live under his own recognizance?”

Hermann pauses to consider this, and Newt’s heart beats against his chest. He doesn't understand why he's so scared; after all, the worst that would happen is that they give him back to Hermann. Right?

No. The very worst thing would be to leave, to never see Hermann again. The worst thing would be the struggle to build a meaningful life without this man in it.

Hermann clears his throat. “Er, no. I do not.”

“Please elaborate, Dr. Gottlieb.” Newt watches as Hermann takes a drink of water from the sweating glass beside him. His hand trembles as he lifts it to his lips.

“Despite the marked progress that Dr. Geiszler has made in his own recovery, I have found that he…” He pauses and leans forward into the microphone. “Dr. Geiszler does not currently possess the emotional independence to operate without another…”

“Without what, Doctor?”

“Without a partner.” Newt scans the room and sees a small smile creep across Mako’s lips.

“Let me get this straight, Dr. Gottlieb. You say Dr. Geiszler has made “marked progress”, yet he can't function without help?”

Hermann straightens. “I said he requires emotional support. He can certainly function, like many people who have suffered trauma.”

“So he needs friends. I find it highly unlikely that he needs a live-in friend.” Newt watches Hermann's jaw work, the way it does when he's angry or excited.

“I beg your pardon, but the PPDC put Dr. Geiszler under my _, and I quote,_ “exclusive care and supervision”. Furthermore…” Hermann puts his glasses on and --  oh my God, he brought the entire agreement with him. Newt swallows a loud cackle, disguising it as a cough. “'Dr. Gottlieb will serve as the _sole advisory authority_ regarding any developments made in Dr. Geiszler's development, in conjunction with independent analyses by his therapist, Dr. Cerise Godard.” Hermann looks over the lenses of his glasses at the panel, who clearly didn't know who the fuck they'd called in here. “If you did not plan on listening to my advice, then why are we having this hearing?” Despite Hermann's clear frustration, he keeps his voice calm and level. Newt takes a big gulp of water to hide his snide grin. Watching Hermann drag these bureaucrats brings Newt a great deal of satisfaction.

“Dr. Gottlieb…” The chairman of the panel pinches the bridge of his nose. “Very well. We will mark Dr. Geiszler's recovery as 'continuing’.”

“I believe that is best.” Hermann quips, a smug smirk curling across his lips. Newt has never thought Hermann more wonderful than at this moment, standing like a brick wall between him and the world. Newt hasn't thought much about it, but he knows that once he begins living a real life, people will know him. They'll recognize him, and they'll hate him. Despite all that, Newt thinks that if he has Hermann there, maybe he can make it.

For the first time in twenty years, Newt truly understands that Hermann will never hate him, and he will never leave him.

Before the two of them can leave, Newt feels a soft touch on his shoulder and blanches when he turns to face Mako. He'd dreaded this moment for a long time, ever since he woke up from that fucked-up nightmare. Now, it stared him right in the face.

“Newt.” Mako speaks, in her soft, steady voice. “I wanted to speak with you before I had to leave headquarters.” She doesn't sound angry, but she probably has enough self-control to conceal it.

“Yeah, I bet. I don't know…” Newt swallows the hard lump rising to his throat. “I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry, Mako. I'm sorry.” Tears burn in his eyes, and he looks at the floor. “I can't even begin to repay what I've done to you.”

“You can. Please start by living a happy life with Hermann.” She replies, her smile widening.

“What?” Newt can't believe his ears, but Mako nods and gently touches his shoulder. He loves this woman; he remembers all of the times he'd played with her in the gloomy halls of the Anchorage Shatterdome, how Hermann had sat her in his lap and snuck her candy, how she'd laughed when he made faces across the mess hall. He loves her, and he’d hurt her, and yet here she stands, forgiving.

“Everything you did to me, to the PPDC… we must accept responsibility for. You Drifted with that Kaiju to save us, and we all took that for granted. We should have helped you, supported you. On behalf of us all, I hope you will forgive us.” Mako bows to Newt, and he grabs her up into a tight embrace.

“Mako…” She reciprocates as he hiccups an apology. This feels like a dream to Newt, but her presence is real, her _life_ is real, and that's enough.

“Please, go enjoy your life.” Mako places a kiss on his cheek. “Don't dwell on the past. You've atoned enough.” Newt nods, and as they part he swipes his arm over his eyes. As he looks out at the wide reception hall of the headquarters, he notices the telltale blur of nearsightedness returning to the corners of his vision, just enough to disorient him. He smiles and hurries to Hermann's side where he waits, swiping through messages on his phone.

“Newton? Are you alright?” Hermann asks as Newt slips an arm into his.

“Yeah. I just…” Newt grins, a stray tear tumbling down his face. “I'm gonna need some glasses.”

* * *

“You were okay with him telling them that? Cerise asks Newt at their next -- and last -- session. He's just told her about the hearing, about how Hermann had deemed him unfit for a solitary life. Newt knows she's surprised because of his independent streak and disdain for authority, but when you're as close to someone as he is to Hermann, you're never really alone.

“He wasn't lying. I'm not ready to go back to my life before. I'm tired, man. I don't wanna go back to the rat race of academia. The War is over, for real this time. I have a chance to have a life ruled by what I want, not what I feel like I gotta do. Maybe I'll write a book or something.” Cerise arches an eyebrow.

“You could write a book without Dr. Gottlieb, Newt.” He just grins, his heart full enough to burst.

“Sure, but I don't want to. I don't want to do anything without Hermann ever again.” Cerise looks as if she wants to tell Newt something cautionary, but she thinks again and smiles warmly, tucking her pen behind her ear.

“Of course.” She signs a few papers and shuts Newt's file. “Dr. Geiszler. Newt. I wish you and Dr. Gottlieb nothing but the best.”

“Thanks, Doc. I don't intend on having anything but.”

Newt grins all the way out to the car, and when he gets in Hermann raises an eyebrow. “I take it your session went well?” He chuckles and goes to start the car, but Newt grabs him by the wrist and leans forward, crushing their lips together. Hermann gasps and puts his hand behind Newt's head.

“Yeah. You could say that.” Newt whispers, pressing his forehead against Hermann's. He thinks about now, and the next day, and the day after that. He thinks about the years and years that he gets to do _this,_ just love and love and love Hermann the way he's wanted for so long. He thinks he could do this forever.

“Shall we head home, Doctor Geiszler?” Hermann nuzzles the words into Newt's neck, and he kisses Hermann again, this time gentle and sweet. As he pulls back, Newt smiles against the warm space behind Hermann's ear.

“Hey… call me Newt.” He murmurs, and Hermann breathes a blissful sigh.

“Of course, Newt. Of course.”

 


End file.
